Dead Men Tell No Tales
by pi-on-a-skateboard
Summary: Behind every sex addict is a story, and behind those fiery eyes of Connor Walsh lies a whole closet full of skeletons tumbling over themselves to get out.


**TW: clumsy allusions to rape, murder, some violence, language**

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><p>There really was something about death, wasn't there? There wasn't this huge sigh and a fluttering of wings and peace. There wasn't this <em>knowing<em> that it had gone, that the deed had been done. There wasn't a huge vacuum where a soul had once been. Hell, it wasn't even the sting of knowing this was one mistake _way_ too far, the guilt and worry and the road stretching to infinity that they'd have to run.

It was nothing. Not even empty. Just nothing behind those eyes. Knowing that that was all they were – eyes. Eyes that once held meaning, now lying unfulfilled. No purpose. Not even an organ. Just cells.

_And now you're lying on the cold hard ground (OH!)_

"I… I screwed up… I screwed up so bad…"

He slid down the wall, gasping.

Of course, if it hadn't been essentially murder, it might have been more peaceful. But, no, the girl had _had_ to have gone and picked up the damn trophy and now they were all royally fucked.

He didn't like this. He didn't like this.

He didn't like this at all.

He didn't know what to do. He always knew what to do, what to say. Keep calm, keep the fire burning in your eyes, always keep them wanting more but never give away your secrets.

He was drowning.

_How deep? How deep can one get?_

He closed his eyes. He was fifteen.

He should have said stop. Should have screamed.

_Stop_!

It was all his fault.

_STOP IT! STOP!_

His father unbuckling his belt.

"_We're in a marathon and you've hit the wall, but we have six more miles to go."_

Blood and tendons and bits of flesh spewing into the air.

Keep stabbing. Keep hacking. It's not real. It's not real.

"I screwed up, Oliver. I couldn't… I couldn't save her, I couldn't save her, I screwed up, I screwed up so bad."

"What are you _talking_ about, Connor? Come on, breathe for me now."

He was vaguely aware of Oliver in his periphery, but it was foggy, buried under the flashes of his past, wave after wave throwing him into the wall.

"_Take it like a man."_

7 years old. He was 7 years old.

Her glassy eyes stared at him, green and cold and a mere collection of cells because that's all she way, just cells, not functioning, just atoms arranged in such a manner that she looked like his mother, but that's all she'd ever be, just looking, because she wouldn't function any more, and soon she'd be in a pine box.

The taste in his mouth, slimy and salty, and he wanted to spit it out and he wanted to bite down hard with his teeth, bite it off, but he couldn't, and he wanted to cry and run but his pants were down and oh, God, no, please, he'd get in trouble, this was wrong _wrong WRONG ALL WRONG_.

In black at his funeral, open casket, and he looked peaceful. So peaceful. Except for exit hole out the back of the idiot's head.

Blood pooling around him all wet and sticky and the smell, just like a barbeque but not, not a barbeque, tainted, not just pig, oh God, no, a special type of pig frying up in _that_ fire and _fuck_ he was

"S-so screwed, I screwed up, I screwed up so bad."

"_Nothing. Just a little fairy. You are _nothing_ to me, Connor, but a failure and a screw up. Go ahead and do what you want, and I'm having nothing more to do with you."_

"I screwed, I screwed, I screwed up so bad."

"Connor!" It was Oliver's hand on his back, so gentle. Not James', not his father's, not anyone else's. "Breathe, come on. In and out. In and out."

More waves, more images, light and no light and bad decisions, half-assed attempts, failure, failure, failure.

He couldn't control this.

He could only give in to panic.

"That's it, Connor."

The voice was soft, calm. How could it be calm?

"You can do it. In and out."

Practised. Caring.

Who the _fuck_ cared for a screw-up like him?

"… Oliver?"

He knew there was a sigh.

"You're doing really well, Connor. Want to tell me what happened?"

He laughed. He didn't know why he was laughing. He didn't know what was so funny.

Ha. Ha. Ha.

"Dead men tell no tales."

"Connor, what have you taken?"

"Nothing, nothing, no drugs. I screwed up, I screwed up."

"Connor…"

He shut his eyes as his head was pulled down, pulled against the warm chest, the non-shaky chest, the one thing he had that could be stable.

"Come on, just keep breathing."

How could he, so deep under water?

"_Dead men tell no tales."_

"Dead men tell no tales, Oliver. Dead men tell no tales."

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><p><strong>Hi everyone out there! Enjoying the amazing show?<strong>

**So I'm loving Connor... but I can't get over how broken he is. I've always assumed something very Freudian going on, and there's just nitty little things he does throughout the show that is kind of building up this history. So, if this continues - which I'm not sure of yet - it'll be paralleling the show while filling in some gaps... if anyone is interested? Otherwise I just have a confusing mash of what was going through Connor's mind during that breakdown in 01 X 04.**

**Like it? Hate it? Want me to turn into a pizza oven? Please let me know!**

**Keep smiling! :D**


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